


Existential Crisis

by entanglednow



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Crack, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>I think my life choices clash with his life choices. I keep asking about the Templars and he'll do that face at me. Honestly, one conversation option. He literally won't talk about anything else, not even the weather. It's very frustrating</em>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Existential Crisis

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist is not having a good day.

Gathering together a band of adventurers to fight the darkspawn is a lot more complicated than expected. For a start there's a lot more trinket buying, armour and weapon juggling and thorny moral choices than expected.

In the olden days it would be much easier. In the olden days it was easier to be certain about things.

Like whether you were male or female.

Also, no one seems to be talking. They're all standing very still at opposite ends of the camp, not talking to each other. It's all very strange. Morrigan is understandable, because she doesn’t like other people and probably restrains herself from poisoning everyone at every meal. But the rest of them, spread around the camp and very obviously not talking.

Honestly, it's a bit silly.

Wynne especially, it's debatable whether all this standing around is good for her at her age. Maker knows she keeps going on about it at every opportunity. She looks very serene though, so maybe she's employing unknowable magical assistance somehow.

Or, considering the hordes of darkspawn she's quite capable of smacking all the way back to the dark city. She could be faking it.

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist tries to decide who to talk to.

Morrigan has a habit of taking offence depending entirely on her mood. Alistair still won't talk about the Templars, or anything else, and it's exhausting trying to balance trinkets with gentle prods at conversation. Sten is...staring. Wynne is being serene. Leliana will want to talk about the Maker or how all the bunnies in the kingdom just want to be loved...and Oghren is drunk.

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist thinks alcohol would be good right about now but Sten and Oghren have drunk it all.

Zevran it is then.

The ground isn't exactly comfortable but the Nameless Faceless Protagonist hasn't had a good sit down in ages.

Zevran is always up for a little conversation, providing someone gives him boots first.

If only Alistair was that easy.

"I can't remember if I'm male or female!" The Nameless Faceless Protagonist confesses awkwardly.

"I don't mind," Zevran says smoothly.

"Not helpful," the Nameless Faceless Protagonist points out because, true as that may be, it's rather disconcerting to not be entirely sure about your gender.

How were you supposed to make important life decisions when you couldn’t remember that?

"And Alistair’s being difficult again. We were wrestling with our thorny moral issues but that man doesn't bend an inch."

Zevran smirks and the Nameless Faceless Protagonist thinks clarification might be in order before the elf makes some sort of reference to bending which is unhelpful and distracting.

"He's my comrade-in-arms we're supposed to be the last of the Grey Wardens. I just want him to like me. But being a nice person pisses off everyone else. It's easier to be morally flexible and work on Alistair later. It's like being followed by a disappointed puppy."

"Perhaps he needs a nice massage," Zevran offers helpfully.

"You keep suggesting that, I think you just do it to scare him. Besides, I think Alistair would disapprove of massages on principle. Unless there was some sort of special Grey Warden edict. Also, I think he's terrified of anyone seeing him naked. Which is funny because I seem to be the one who's always telling him what to wear?"

The Nameless Faceless protagonist sighs.

"I think my life choices clash with his life choices. I keep asking about the Templars and he'll do that face at me. Honestly, one conversation option. He literally won't talk about anything else, not even the weather. It's very frustrating."

"Unless you give him more pretty trinkets," Zevran points out.

The Nameless Faceless protagonist nods.

"It's irritating when he doesn't like me enough to tell me things."

"Why don't you buy him some nice boots?" Zevran offers.

"Alistair doesn't like boots," The Nameless Faceless Protagonist complains. "For some strange reason he's rather fond of rune stones and little statuettes though. I have no idea where he keeps them all. At least I don't have to carry them any more. The amount of crap I have to hold on to for all of you. You'd think none of you had any pockets. Either that or you all think I'm a pack mule."

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist frowns.

"Maybe it's a Dwarvish thing." The Nameless Faceless protagonist has a moment of existential crisis. "Am I a Dwarf?"

Zevran laughs at that like it's the start of some sort of complex insanity.

"Perhaps you should ask ours, where is he now anyway?"

"Oghren? He was having _opinions_ so I gave him some booze, I think he wandered off somewhere and fell in a bush, I don't know."

"Ah, the busy life of a Dwarf," Zevran sounds amused.

"I like him, he's easy to bribe into not being difficult," the Nameless Faceless protagonist says with a nod. "Also, you can get away with stuff when he's not looking, unlike Alistair who has some sort of terrifying Templar power to always know when I'm doing something he's going to find disappointing. We're apparently still not talking about Redcliffe. I have to console myself in the knowledge that with enough family heirlooms and little statuettes and he'll be happy again, eventually."

There's a quiet pause.

"Would it look needy, or psychotic if I just gave him everything?" The Nameless Faceless Protagonist asks.

Zevran makes a noise that suggests maybe it would be both.

"I suppose I should be glad a little hard work and a few shiny things will let me get away with all the child-killing and blood magic shouldn’t I?"

The dog barks, loudly.

"I apologised for that time we did the entire Dalish quest while Alistair had a fractured skull. It's not like he _said_ anything. Honestly I'm practically made of injury kits, all he had to do was ask."

Zevran makes an agreeable noise.

The Nameless Faceless protagonist makes a face.

"Also, I get the feeling at some point in the future Morrigan will demand I help her take over the world and I may or may not end up sleeping with her. It's quite worrying." The Nameless Faceless protagonist scratches the back of their neck. "But then I get distracted by the thought of her in her underwear...weirdly unattractive and not particularly protective underwear. And what's that about, why are we all wearing the same type? I don't remember picking any of it up, I'm not sure I _would_ have picked it up."

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist is quietly baffled.

"I suppose there's always Leliana, she doesn't mind the whole uncertain gender issue either. Though I have to try not to tread on any flowers and find every lost child in the bloody kingdom before she'll sleep with me and even then she'll make me feel like the Maker's watching. It's almost not worth it. I can't even get Alistair happy enough to engage in conversation, and until the whole gender thing is sorted out I'm not entirely sure whether I'd supposed to be seducing him or having comradely and completely non-sexual adventures."

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist frowns irritation.

"And no one else seems capable of sex. Alright, I'm not saying I _want_ to have sex with Sten, or Wynne, or Oghren. But I feel like I should be _allowed_ in some way. It vexes me, like I'm being denied things by a capricious and angry God - I mean Maker."

"I am always prepared to have sex with you," Zevran assures. "You don't even have to rescue children."

"You just demand some gold bars and some nice boots and to let you talk about assassinating people for a while. And I literally fell over that chest in Haven with the boots in. Or rather Leliana did. I'm amazed she approves of picking locks, it probably hurts bunnies or something, all this stealing."

The dog's barking, still, continually. The Nameless Faceless protagonist isn't sure if that's better or worse than leaving dead animals in Morrigan's pack.

"And seriously, how exactly does having sex with you boost my dexterity anyway - how does that work? It's not like I'm learning valuable skills I might need in battle."

Zevran does the dirty eyebrows.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it depends what sort of battle."

"Nothing I'd want to use against the darkspawn," the Nameless Faceless Protagonist says carefully and then winces.

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist sighs and rubs a hand over a face that's getting a permanent frown dent in it.

"I'm sure sex should be both less and more complicated than this."

"All this talk of sex makes me want to increase your dexterity a little, yes."

"Zevran, I'm having an existential crisis."

"Maybe sex will help?"

"I don't even know if I _need_ any more dexterity."

"People could always use more dexterity," Zevran says from under his eyebrows.

"Granted, it was useful in that threesome with Isabella - also, why do we never go to your tent? Why is it always mine?"

Zevran spreads his hands in a sensible sort of way.

"My tent is full of sharp things, not a good place for encouraging dexterity while still having fun."

The Nameless Faceless protagonist grunts.

The dog's barking again. If the Nameless Faceless Protagonist remembered its name it would be a lot easier to tell it to be quiet.

"I wish Sten would stop staring at me. It's very unnerving."

"It has a certain disturbing focus that I find...disquieting," Zevran admits.

"Like he'd be quiet happy to turn us all into chunky stew and eat us," the Nameless Faceless Protagonist guesses.

"That would be close yes."

"What do you think he does with all those little paintings?"

There's a moment of uncomfortable and disturbed silence.

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist sighs and looks down.

"Did you ever notice how big my hands are?" Because it's a sensible enough complaint. "It's like I got them stuck somewhere and couldn’t wait for someone to come hew me out, what's with that. Though I suppose the amount of weapons we go through I should be glad of it. For whatever weapon I'm currently fighting with. I can't remember if I'm a warrior, or a mage, or a rogue?"

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist makes a worried face.

"That seems like the sort of thing a Grey Warden should know."

Morrigan interrupts the existential uncertainty by dumping what looks like three entire suits of armour on the ground with a crash.

"What's that?" The Nameless Faceless protagonist asks.

"It's armour you retarded fool," Morrigan says flatly. "I found it."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Everyone gives everything to you, you're our quest leader are you not."

"The dwarves are over there, go sell it to them."

"Do I _look_ like a merchant to you, Warden?" Morrigan says flatly and wanders off.

They both watch her leave.

"That outfit is very distracting," The Nameless Faceless protagonist says slowly. "Honestly I know there's better armour out there and I know she shouldn’t go to fight the darkspawn dressed in what's pretty much a handful of feathers and a few strips of cloth. But -"

There's a moment of silence.

Zevran makes a noise which suggests he knows exactly why it's such a difficult decision.

"The promise of breasts," the Nameless Faceless Protagonist finishes.

Zevran makes another noise which sounds _dirty._

"She seems exceptionally cross today," the elf says.

"I'm sure I can scavenge up something pretty for her so she doesn't send spiders to eat me while I sleep," the Nameless Faceless Protagonist decides.

The armour's mostly rubbish, it usually is.

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist holds it up against everyone just to be sure.

"This is what happens every time, a pack full of miscellaneous stuff that I'm just going to have to dump on the first merchant I see. Or the next thing I know I'll find myself in the middle of a battle with a bag full of weapons and absolutely no idea which ones are better than the ones we're using. It's a good job the darkspawn will stop long enough for us to sort it all out for maximum stabbing effect. Though sometimes I get confused by all the hats, sometimes I just panic and sell them all because I can't deal with the stress. Still, it could be worse, I could be forced to wear Loghain's 'look how huge my metal shoulder pads are, I'm almost certainly compensating for something' armour."

The dog's stopped barking and is now growling in that 'I'm going to pretend to rip your arm off,' sort of way. Alistair's trying to pet the Mabari War Hound again. He really should have learned by now. Alistair's special, he really is.

"I suppose we should go and fight the darkspawn in a while." A heavy sigh. "Though it is nice the way they never seem to attack until we're ready to leave. Still, sometimes that feels like an unnecessary pressure."

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist isn't exactly in the mood to kill demons and fill the packs full of useless stuff.

Zevran seems to notice.

"I can tell you more about Antiva if you like?"

The Nameless Faceless Protagonist stretches out and leans back against the packs.

"Ah, go on then."


End file.
